


between the lines

by OnyxSphinx



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Domesticity, Fluff, Getting Together, Newt-centric, Not Pacific Rim: Uprising (2018) Compliant, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-07
Updated: 2020-03-07
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:27:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23045530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnyxSphinx/pseuds/OnyxSphinx
Summary: After the War, Newt and Hermann talk a bit, move in together, are sickeningly sweet, and Newt realises he likes to help people (shocker)
Relationships: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb
Comments: 3
Kudos: 29





	between the lines

**Author's Note:**

> this is literally something i wrote back in oct 2019 and only came across the other day. cleaned it up a bit because it's v personal and i wanted it to be Good and decided to post it

The war ends; with a bang, and a splash, and, mostly, a silence; the kind left over after something big happens; which makes sense, because something big _has_ happened, and it’s the sort of thing that leaves a long silence, where not even the breath you give and take seems to make any sound.

Newt would know; standing here, pressed against the wall and Hermann, every breath of his is soundless; muffled into oblivion and wiped from existence. Hermann’s are, too; but those, Newt can feel, from the proximity; the heat of it ghosting his skin, just as the heat of Hermann’s body seeps through the front of his shirt, where the mathematician’s palm is, and warms Newt.

Around them, the people grieve and party; mourn the losses and celebrate the victory.

Newt, frankly, is rather amazed that they’re alive.

“You’re filthy.”

It’s the first thing Newt’s heard in a while, and it startles him; snaps his gaze from where it’s drifted to the floor back up to meet Hermann’s; the little disapproving quirk of his lips present still even though he looks dead tired, and just as ready to fall asleep on his feet as Newt is.

Newt hums. “Shower?” he suggests, “you’re hardly fresh as a rose either, dude.”

“At least I haven’t got blood on me,” Hermann shoots back; but he doesn’t pull away, either; and the blue-grey of (neutralised) kaiju blue from the lab, earlier, and the dirt and mud and Newt’s own blood seep from cloth to cloth and transfer, or if they haven’t, yet, then they will, soon.

“How hot?” Newt asks, instead of commenting on that; watches, though eyes half-lidded as Hermann responds, the pull of lips, and the little nervous tic that’s Newt’s, really, as he worries it with his teeth, fingers tapping.

“Hot,” Hermann says.

Newt laughs; lightly. “‘Kay,” he says. “I think I have some of your clean clothes at mine—you probably want to change.”

“Yes,” Hermann agrees.

* * *

The shower turns on with a creak; the plastic rubbing against tile as he turns it, and the water hisses out; cold, at first, but rapidly warming. He closes his eyes, the water wetting his skin; basks in the comfort of the sensation.

“You should take off your clothing,” Hermann says; not in the shower yet, he peels off his clothes; blazer and sweater and shirt, slacks and socks and underclothes all. He’s wearing a ridiculous amount of clothing, really.

“Too tired,” Newt replies.

There’s a sigh; then, a second later, Hermann joins him; the two of them standing in the spray of the showerhead; Newt, still fully dressed, somehow feels more naked than he’s ever been.

“If you’re too tired, I can help you get them off,” Hermann offers, suddenly; eyes closed, glasses flecked with water; and Newt, startled, tenses; then, breathes.

“Yeah, thanks,” he says; shakily, a little; and then a second later, Hermann’s fingers, long and slender, begin to work at the knot of the tie; pull it loose and then start on the buttons of his shirt, quick and yet, somehow, unbelievably gentle; peels the wet cloth away from skin and lets it drop to the floor.

He stops, then, for a moment; considering. “Raise your arms,” he says, and Newt complies; allows Hermann to untuck the undershirt and pull it up and off, and Hermann stops again; staring. “They’re beautiful, somehow,” he says; quietly; the tattoos, he means, Newt realises.

Hermann reaches out; hand hovering over skin, and Newt gives a tiny nod. Hermann traces the lines of the kaiju; the reds, yellows, greens, and blues; pauses, for a moment, over the scars on Newt’s chest; a matching set on Hermann’s own chest, the skin long-healed but still noticeable.

“Is it hard?” Newt asks, quietly.

“Yes,” Hermann replies, without hesitation; wet lashes flickering behind his glasses. “Some days, it’s like I can’t breathe.”

 _Oh,_ Newt thinks.

And then they don’t speak anymore; Hermann undoes the fly of Newt’s pants, and then they’re both unclothed, standing together as the water beats down on their skin; for the moment, one; and they stand closer still, pressed almost chest to chest; breathing in synchrony, Newt’s chin resting on Hermann’s shoulder.

The water runs as they go through the motions; slowly; rub shampoo into their own and each others’ hair, scrub soap onto skin; hair flattened down, wet; actions slowed by weariness. Finally, the water runs cool, and they stumble, clinging to each other, out; find, somewhere, a towel, and dry off so they’re not dripping.

Newt watches as Hermann towels his hair; then, dries his glasses. “Sleep?” he says.

“For a year,” Hermann replies, the dryness of his tone almost to its usual levels. “No—for a decade.”

“Hah,” Newt cracks a smile. “Try forever.”

They move, arm in arm, sluggishly to the bed; the covers pulling up and back, and then over them; pressed shoulder to shoulder, skin to skin. “Can I kiss you?” Hermann asks.

Newt stops; startled, for a moment, both by the question and the sudden blossom of desire, so long buried, rising in him; breath whistling out, fast, and then he says, quietly: “Yes,”, waits, trembling, slightly, for _something._

Hermann’s lips, feather-light, brush his shoulder; then, again, and moving up the length of his neck, and then, quietly, he says, “Turn over, please, Newton.”

Newt breathes; deep and shuddering; skin burning hot where Hermann’s fingers touch him, and the sheet crinkles as he moves; shifts to face Hermann. Hermann doesn’t move, for a moment; just keeps his gaze with Newt’s, steady, and then he leans forward; hand moves from Newt’s hip up to cup his jaw.

“Is this alright?” he asks, softly.

Newt lets out a trembling breath. “Yes,” he croaks.

Hermann kisses him; soft at first, the merest press of lips, and then heady; deeper, and Newt, too, presses forward; desperate, almost; lips parting involuntarily, and fingers gripping Hermann’s shoulders, the back of his neck; vision explodes, suddenly; white-blue, feels both at the same time his own shuddering gasp 0f breath and Hermann’s own, the arch of his spine.

Fingers run over his back; Hermann’s, not frigid anymore, passing over vertebra; mouth still against his, slower, now, though; lazy, almost, pulls back a bit.

“Mm,” he murmurs, half-swallowed as Hermann kisses him again; moves his fingers from the mathematician’s torso up to card his hands through his hair. “Missed you.”

“I haven’t gone anywhere,” Hermann points out; pulling away, and Newt chases after, presses, softly, kisses to Hermann’s cheeks, his neck; down to the hollow of his throat.

“I know,” Newt says. “But it feels like I’m only just seeing you now for the first time.”

“ _Newton,_ ” Hermann says; slightly scandalised, but a smile’s tugging at his lips. “You’re terrible,” he says, and then lets out a slight gasp as Newt kisses further down, trails his fingers down the sensitive skin on his abdomen. “ _Horrible,_ ” he says, but without any bite; a whisper of a word.

“It’s true,” Newt shoots back; grinning, involuntarily.

“ _Newton,_ ” Hermann says; again, reaches down to tug him up; finger up his chin. “Come here.”

Newt obliges; lips locking with Hermann’s, both drowsy, slow, now; fingers trailing lazily. “Love you,” he says, softly; watches Hermann breathe; lashes fluttering, dark, against pale skin as his eyes slip shut and then flick open.

“And I, you, dearest,” Hermann returns; smiling softly, and threads his fingers through Newt’s.

* * *

They move to a little flat; within walking distance of the uni; take on a few courses. The uni is delighted; Hermann, amused. He hangs a sign outside his office that has a math joke on it. Newt bought it for him.

Things go…great, actually.

The kids love the k-bio course; they absolutely loathe Hermann’s strictness in the theoretical math one, but they like the material; Newt once hears a group of students talking about how they love the newest unit.

Newt loves his job; knows Hermann, too, loves his deep down, but there’s a— _loneliness,_ sort of; an empty purposelessness.

“Like I’m drowning,” he says, to Hermann. “But I’m…still alive, you know?”

Hermann purses his lips. “I think,” he says, slowly, “that you feel— _useless,_ as it were, now that you’re not doing something…'big’. Before, you had the kaiju war, but now…” he trails off.

“You think I need a—a project?” Newt asks.

“Well,” Hermann pauses. “Yes.”

Newt squints at him. “Are you sure it’s not just like, seasonal depression? On top of the regular depression, I mean?”

“ _Newton,_ ” Hermann says; exasperation in his tone. “I _know_ the difference, darling.”

 _Fair,_ Newt thinks. “Okay, then, like what?”

“Well, what do you want to do?” Hermann shoots back.

“Fuck,” Newt says; with a little laugh. “Loaded question there, buddy.” Which, is, like. An understatement of _epic_ proportions. What does he want…

“Sorry,” Hermann says; bites his lip. “Just…something creative, maybe?”

Newt laughs; again. “Dude,” he says, “we both know I’m shit at art.”

Hermann rolls his eyes. “We both know creativity isn’t limited to art, Newton. Buy a colouring book or take up cross-stitch—both of _those_ are creative.”

“Yeah, but they don’t _help_ anyone,” Newt shoots back. “Like, cross-stitch is great, but it doesn’t…it’s not _enough,_ you know?” Fucking martyr complex or whatever the hell it is. He wishes he could just have _fun._

Hermann sighs. “I’m sorry, love,” he says, “I’ve no idea what to suggest.”

“’s okay,” Newt reassures. “Thanks, though, for trying.”

Hermann squeezes his shoulder; pulls him into a hug. “You’ll find something,” he says, “you’re Newton Geiszler, rockstar genius.”

“Thanks,” Newt huffs, but he’s smiling into the fabric of Hermann’s shirt.

* * *

“ _Podcast!_ ” Newt shouts, halfway through dinner.

Hermann, startled, drops his fork with a clatter; “Pardon?” he says, “Newton, _what_ are you talking about—?”

“The _project,_ ” Newt says, impatiently. “The—the thing! To help people, I mean. A podcast about—about—” he stops, unable to continue; chews his lip, gesticulating as he tries to think of how to put it into words.

Across from him, Hermann sighs; bends to pick up the fallen fork, and wipes up the bit of food that fell with it; stares at the fork for a moment before he wipes it clean with a paper towel; offers Newt a glass of water.

“Swallow,” he says; “breathe.”

Newt does; gulps the water back greedily. Finally, he sets the cup down; empty. “Identity,” he says. “That’s what it’s going to be about.”

“The podcast?” Hermann asks.

“The podcast,” Newt says.

“Identity.”

“Well, yeah,” Newt runs a hand through his hair. “Look, I just…I think that there aren’t a ton of role-models, you know? I should…use my fame for good, or whatever. Plus, frankly, I…” he trails off

“You wish there had been someone who could talk to you about it?” he guesses, the words quiet; and he reaches out; places a hand on Newt’s. His expression reads _understanding,_ and Newt knows it _is;_ they were both there, even if at different times, and both just as alone in it.

Newt nods. “Yeah,” he says. “Um. Okay, then. That’s my project.”

So, in the time between, he begins; grading papers no longer lazily but with a determined glint in his eye, and then scribbles on scraps of paper, tacks them to corkboard and connects them with string.

Hermann watches it all with a fond resignation; doesn’t comment on the absurdity, which Newt appreciates; and is always up to coming up behind him, half-dressed at one in the morning, to press kisses to his neck and tempt him, eyes drooping with tiredness, to bed, finally, which Newt appreciates even more.

“How are you progressing?” Hermann asks, after one such encounter; Newt wrapped in his arms, barely able to form coherent thoughts from exhaustion.

“’s…going,” he says, through a yawn; curls in towards the heat of Hermann’s skin; eyes already closed, the soft light of the bedside lamp barely making it through. “'think it’s good.”

“Good,” Hermann says; and cards his fingers through Newt’s hair, and Newt tastes, on the edge of his mind, as he drifts into the darkness of sleep, warm, quiet satisfaction.

* * *

_INSTRUMENTAL music plays. In the background, the sound of falling rain, and, distantly, the dull roar of traffic._

_[VO] Hi! You’re listening to READ BETWEEN THE LINES, a podcast on identity, self-expression, and the ever-crushing weight that is existing around other humans._

_[BEAT]_

_This podcast is written and produced by Newton Geiszler. Music is by various classical artists, so you’ll probably recognise at least some of it, and all special effects were created and taped by me._

_Let’s get this show on the road._

_[Fade out VO]_

_[NEWT] Since the end of the kaiju war, I’ve become a bit of a celebrity. Now, I’m not saying I DISLIKE that it’s over [HE laughs] but, well, with the kaiju gone, I kind of lost my passion._

_What is my passion? Well, I wasn’t really sure—at first._

_[BEAT, papers shuffling. HE takes a sip of coffee] Well, it turns out that my passion is helping people! Who knew, huh—you’d never guess it, right, from my whole [DRILY] SAVING THE WORLD._

_[BEAT]_

_Helping save the world. With, uh, my partner Hermann…yeah. Helping save the world. That was—not very fun, actually._

_[HE claps his hands]_

_Okay, enough of that! On to the actual topic of this podcast: identity! Specifically, identity, and its complexities when you throw sexual orientation, sex, and personal presentation into the mix…_

* * *

“Herms,” Newt says.

Hermann hums; not looking up from his book; stupid-cute glasses on, pushed up as far up the bridge of his nose as they’ll go. Newt sighs; sits down beside him; leans against him, and then, when Hermann relaxes against him, untucks his shirt and runs his fingers over the skin.

“Newton!” Hermann shrieks, batting his hands away. “You—!” he sputters, face pinking.

Newt grins; unrepentant, and then lets out a squeak of surprise when Hermann lunges forward; pins him against the sofa. “Hermann—!” and then he stops, unable to speak anymore; tears streaming down his face as he laughs as Hermann tickles him mercilessly. “S—st—stop,” he chokes, cheeks hurting from smiling.

“Should I?” Hermann asks, musingly; pauses, for a moment.

“Yes, yes, you _should,_ ” Newt nods, “you’re a _good person,_ Hermann, I _know_ you are—”

“Hmm,” Hermann hums, “I think—”

Before he can say any more, Newt squirms out from beneath him and hits the floor. “Ow,” he moans, more theatrically than necessary, limbs sprawling. A moment later, Hermann’s face peaks over the edge of the sofa.

“Are you quite alright?” he asks.

“N-o,” Newt groans, and pouts. “My _body_ hurts, Herms…”

“Oh, you,” Hermann says; rolls his eyes; lowers himself to the ground. “Where does it hurt, exactly?”

“My _heart,_ ” Newt cries, “oh, my poor, broken heart!”

“Newton,” Hermann says, sternly, but there’s a smile breaking, there, and Newt reaches out, mindful of his leg; tugs him down, gently, so he’s laying on Newt. “…you’re terrible,” he says.

“But you love me anyway,” Newt shoots back with a grin; tips his head up to kiss him.

“Mm,” Hermann says, against his lips. “Well—I suppose I do, at that.”

They stay like that, for a few moments, just exchanging languid kisses, until Newt says, “Okay, so, like, not complaining, but I actually _did_ have a point, here—”

Hermann huffs. “Oh, I couldn’t _possibly_ have guessed that you had an agenda of _any_ sort,” he says, drily.

“Hush,” Newt says. “Anyway, what I was _trying_ to ask you, before you so rudely _attacked_ me, is if you want to go out for date night next week?”

“Out?” Hermann asks; raises a brow. “Where to?”

“Dinner,” Newt says.

“Oh, very helpful.”

“ _Fancy_ dinner,” Newt adds. “I’ll wear a tie and everything. You’ll love it.”

“Why do I feel like there’s a catch?” Hermann asks.

Newt laughs. “No catch,” he says, “I promise, you’ll love it.”

* * *

_[NEWT] …obviously, all of this affects how you interact with the world—what sort of relationships you have with people, both…romantic and platonic, you know._

_[BEAT. HE is thinking. The noise of birds chirping seeps through]_

_[SOFTLY] I’m very lucky that my partner's—well, that he’s my partner. I mean, I spent so long thinking that, um, you know [HE laughs, nervously] what I had done—what I was doing, to be comfortable, would totally exclude that…_

_[BEAT]_

_Older lesbians and gays have probably already said it to you, but I want y'all to know that it DOES get better. There will be a time when you are—well, not HAPPY with yourself, exactly, but…at peace._

_[HE sighs]_

_Yeah, that’s it. At peace. But, um, in the meant time—stay safe, you know? I know it’s shitty to be a lesbian, or gay, or bi, and then, on top of that, you have this—this thing, right? This turmoil, this, uh, dysphoria. But—_

_[HE pauses; voice emotional]_

_Remember that you are important. Even if it doesn’t feel like it, it’s true. You deserve to exist, and to be at peace with yourself. And I just want you to remember that you shouldn’t resort to desperate means—it’ll come back and bite you on the ass. If you can’t be out and safe, it’s better to be safe…_

* * *

They get cake.

Chocolate cheese-cake, actually; and a side of ice-cream, melting a bit under the heat of the overhead lighting, and Hermann, across from him, cuts off a piece and offers it.

“Thanks,” Newt says, with a smile, and takes it; the sweetness melting on his tongue, and he closes his eyes, savouring it. Beneath the table, his toe taps a staccato beat, and he rubs his thumb over his pocket.

Hermann’s smiling back when he opens his eyes; soft and inviting, and his hand inches onto Newt’s knee beneath the table; finds his hand and squeezes it, reassuring.

 _Fuck,_ Newt thinks; _I love him so damn much._

“I’ll be right back,” he says, “gotta go get a straw. Order me an orange juice?”

“Alright,” Hermann says, and Newt gets up; walks, unsteadily, a bit, to go hunt down a straw; tries not to have a fucking mental breakdown as he watches his life flash before him.

This is a good idea, right?

When he gets back, Hermann’s got the orange-juice and the cheque, and he offers a glance up. “Oh, there you are,” he says, “you were taking a while. Are you quite alright?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Newt nods, “I’m just fine.”

On the way back, in their little Toyota, Newt’s palms are warm; he stares intently out the windshield; rubs them on the legs of his pants; rolls down the window, suddenly feeling hot. “Did you enjoy it?” he asks; quietly.

“Oh, yes,” Hermann says, “it’s been a while since we did anything like that—it was rather enjoyable. Thank you, Newton,” and he takes one hand off the steering wheel to reach out and take Newt’s hand; gives it a squeeze.

Newt breathes a shaky breath. “Okay,” he says, “good.”

The rest of the drive is silent, save for the rapid pound of Newt’s blood in his ears.

They’re barely in the door before Newt takes a calming breath, hands shoved into his pockets; rubbing at the box for comfort, and then he says, “Hey, Herms, there’s something I gotta say—”

Hermann turns around. “Newton,” he says, “I swear, if another one of your experiments has gone wrong…”

“It hasn’t!” Newt exclaims. “Look, just—give me a minute, okay? I’m a little nervous, here.” He squeezes his eyes shut; flicks them open, and then, all in one, blurts out, “Hermann Gottlieb, will you marry me?”

Hermann stares at him; slack-jawed; unmoving, and then, voice choked, “Oh, _Newton!_ ”

“So is that a yes?” Newt asks.

“Yes!” Hermann cries, and in a fully un-Hermannish action, drops his cane and throws his arms around Newt, peppers his face with kisses. “Yes, you daft man, yes, yes, yes, a thousand times yes!”

“Oh, good,” Newt says—or, rather, tries to say, because Hermann’s captured his lips; hands cupping his face, and it’s not chaste, not at all, his teeth nipping at Newt’s skin.

Newt’s fingers go slack; the ring box drops from his grip, and he pulls away. “Oh shit,” he hisses.

Hermann gives an embarrassed cough and fetches his cane.

The next ten minutes are spent with Newt frantically searching the floor for the box; Hermann disappeared without a word into the bedroom, and Newt hasn’t seen him since

Finally, he finds it, wedged beneath one of the sofas; gives a sigh of relief when he pulls it out to find it undamaged. “Dude,” he calls, “I found it!”

There’s no reply; Newt stands up, frowning. “Hermann?” he calls, “is everything alright?”

He knocks on the bedroom door; opens it slowly.

Hermann’s sitting on the edge of the bed, head bowed. “Hermann?” Newt says, “what’s wrong?”

Hermann raises his head; finally, gaze locking with Newt’s. “Nothing’s wrong, love,” he says, softly; opens his hands to reveal a ring. “I’m just unbearably happy—so happy I could sing.”

“…Hermann?” Newt croaks.

“Will you?” Hermann asks. “I know I’m late, darling, but—”

“Yes,” Newt says. “Yes. Yes, Hermann, oh—fuck, now _I’m_ crying.”

Hermann laughs waterily. “Come here,” he says, and when Newt obliges, takes the box from him with trembling hands; opens it and gently places the second ring inside; snaps the lid shut and sets it on the bedside table.

“What’d you do _that_ for?” Newt asks.

“To keep them safe,” Hermann replies. “It’d be a shame if they were to get lost again as a result of, ah, certain activities.”

“Aw,” Newt coos, “you dork.”

Hermann’s cheeks tint pink. “Shut up and kiss me,” he says.

Newt obliges; fingers running through the short-cropped hair at the base of Hermann’s skull as he kisses him, Hermann making short work of the tie and blazer and then the buttons of the shirt.

“I love you,” he murmurs, soft, against the smooth skin of Hermann’s throat; lets Hermann pull him down so they’re laying side to side.

“I love you as well, darling,” Hermann returns; raises his hand to his lips, and kisses each of Newt’s knuckles. “So very, very much.”

Newt gives an involuntary shiver. “You sap,” he says, and tugs him forward until barely a centimetre separates them. “Awful,” he says, and kisses beneath his eyes, and then his cheeks and forehead.

“Mm,” Hermann hums, eyes flickering, the lamp casting long shadows with his lashes across his skin. “And yet, you love me.”

“I do,” Newt agrees, “I love you, Hermann Gottlieb, so fucking much.”

* * *

_[INSTRUMENTAL music]_

_…I know it can seem hard at times—it seems like you have to change yourself to be acceptable, to fit into a box, but that’s not true._

_[HE pauses]_

_You won’t stop being yourself. I never really stopped being Newton Geiszler, the little mud-splattered girl who played with frogs in the classroom; she’s still part of me. You don’t ever stop being a past version of yourself; you just add onto it; that’s the beauty of life._

_[the sound of WATER running over rocks and hitting leaves]_

_Remember, listeners: you are loved._

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me at [autisticharrow](https://autisticharrow.tumblr.com/) on tumblr


End file.
